Dr Issa Fathima Jasmine flaunts traditional 'saree' look after conquering Mount Kilimanjaro

Scaling Mount Kilimanjaro is no small feat.

Clad in a saree, at 19,000 feet, braving the freezing winds and biting temperatures, she boldly reclaimed her cultural identity, and tradition.

Dr Issa Fathima Jasmine, a Chennai-based dentist and fitness enthusiast, speaks to The Federal about what drove her to drape her six yards saree at Africa’s highest summit—and what that act meant not just for her, but for every woman who has ever been told what she can or cannot wear.

What inspired you to wear a saree to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro?

People often view the saree as delicate, outdated, or even impractical. Today, most young women wear it only for weddings or farewells, saying it's hard to drape or too traditional. But that’s not the saree’s fault—it’s the story we've built around it.

I’ve seen women run households, ride bikes, fight battles, and raise generations—all in sarees. I wanted to change the narrative and show that the saree is not a limitation. Our assumptions are. We’ve confused convenience with modernity. Wearing a saree at the summit was about proving that you can carry your identity to the highest point on the continent and still stand tall.

Was this a symbolic decision planned in advance, or a spontaneous one? And what was the biggest challenge while trekking in a saree at such altitude?

It was very much a symbolic decision, but I didn’t tell anyone. I knew if I did, I’d get a barrage of “Are you sure?” looks—part concern, part confusion.

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At the summit, I had six layers on top and three below, plus a balaclava, woolen cap, and hoodie. It was around minus 14 to minus 20 degrees accompanied by a brutal wind. I had a splitting migraine from the altitude and sunlight reflecting off snow. But the moment I reached the summit, I stripped down to just a saree and boots—no thermals, no layers. I stood there like that for five to seven minutes.

It took a mix of willpower and madness. Oxygen levels drop to about 50 per cent of what we breathe at sea level. You can barely stay for 10–15 minutes at the top. Your body is screaming, your brain says “Get down now!” But I wore the saree because that’s my identity—a South Indian woman’s identity. That moment will stay with me forever.

Did you ever doubt the idea, or face discouragement before the trek?

I never did a trial trek in a saree. I didn’t even mention to anyone that I was carrying one. This wasn’t about climbing the whole mountain in it—it was about reaching the summit as myself. After six freezing days, I knew I had to do it. Yes, people asked later if I was freezing. Of course, I was. But sometimes, the cold outside is no match for the fire inside.

What was summit night like—physically and emotionally? Did you ever think of giving up?

Summit night was brutal. We woke up at midnight, after barely any sleep. Every step felt like I was floating or falling. I remember dozing off while standing. My brain kept yelling: “Why are you even doing this? For whom? What are you trying to prove?”

That’s the part nobody tells you. It’s not about your legs or lungs—it’s about testing your reasons. I kept reminding myself: this is the night I trained for, this is the summit I came for. If not now, never.

Everyone was struggling, but we walked in silence, crossing pain together. At the top, no one screamed or celebrated—we just looked at each other, tired, emotional, proud. All 11 of us summited. That moment taught me something I’ll never forget: You are more than what you think you are—but you’ll only discover that if you choose not to quit.

How did your fellow trekkers and guides react when you changed into a saree at the summit?

Most were curious. Nobody expected me to pull out a six-yard saree at 19,000 feet. The guides—two sisters from Tanzania—were stunned. One of them blinked and asked, “Are you seriously going to do this?” I said, “Yes, just hold my thermals!”

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Even in the freezing wind, I received a lot of respect. My trek mates were surprised and inspired. Many told me afterward that it was the most powerful thing they’d seen on the trek. I had doubts too—whether I’d actually wear it. But when I got there, something shifted. I knew I had to do it.

What message did you want to send through that act?

People massively underestimate traditional wear, especially the saree. It’s seen as complicated, fragile and old-fashioned. But that’s not the fabric’s fault—that’s the lens we’ve put on it.

We live in a time where being modern means dressing, speaking, and behaving in certain ways. I wasn’t trying to say tradition is better—I just wanted to remind people, especially young women, that you don’t have to choose between strength and softness, between ambition and culture.

You don’t need to trade identity for success. You can be rooted and rise. You can belong to your culture and still break every limit. If even one woman can stand a little taller in her own story because of this, that’s my real summit.

What kind of responses have you received since the climb, especially from women?

The response has been overwhelming—and emotional. Many women messaged me saying they haven’t worn a saree in years, but now they will. Some said, “I can’t even climb stairs in a saree—and you wore it at the summit!”

That’s exactly what I wanted to shift—the idea that tradition can’t move, that strength has to look a certain way. Women said they’re rethinking how they view their bodies, fitness, and identity. Whether it’s a saree, hijab, or any traditional outfit, we get to decide how we show up in this world.

How did you prepare for this trek physically and mentally, especially with the altitude challenge?

I work out regularly—weight training and cardio. But before the trek, I had a thigh injury. I couldn’t squat or sit properly for three months. During a trial hike, I couldn’t even climb down. It wasn’t dramatic, just one of those nagging injuries.

So I focused on rehab—stretching, strengthening, and training consistently. That helped me physically. But mentally, altitude demands something else. You can’t train on a treadmill for it. You train your mind to sit with discomfort, to stay calm when your body is screaming. That’s the real test.

Being a dentist helped too—I listened to my body, never ignored warning signs in the name of pushing through.

What's next now that you’ve conquered Kilimanjaro? Another trek? Another saree moment?

I don’t know what’s next. I don’t do things just to tick boxes. Whatever I do—whether a trek, a moment, or a mountain—it has to stretch me and mean something.

I don’t know if I’ll wear a saree again at another summit. But I’ll show up—loudly or quietly, it doesn’t matter. Kilimanjaro taught me that you don’t need perfect conditions. You need a willing heart. Mountains don’t just test your fitness—they test your reasons, your grit, your ability to show up despite the cold, the fear, the discomfort.

Comfort zones are cozy prisons. Nothing grows there. You don’t level up by reading motivational quotes. You do it by doing the uncomfortable thing—again and again. Everything hurts, but you take one more step anyway. And then… you just do it.

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